Washh~gton
The screen flashed 9， g， 7， 6， 5， 4， 3 o . o ffleu the prc~
jector was switched off， and lights came up in recessed
sconces along the walls of the private viewing room.
The projectionist s vo:ce was thin and metallic over
the intercom. \"Ready when you are， Mr. Start.\"
T. Darryl Start， sole audience member， pressed the
talk button of the commmaication console before him.
\"Hey， buddy? Tell me something. What are all those
numbers in front of a movie for any-way?\"
\"It s called academy leader， sir，\" the projectionist
answered. \"I just spliced it onto the film as a sort of
joke.\"
\"Joke?\"
\"Yes， sir. I mean o o . considering the nature of the
film..， it s sort of furmy to have a commercial leader，
don t you think?\"
\"Why funny?\"
\"Welt， I mean..， what vdtB all the complaints about
violence in movies and all that.\"
T. Darryl Start grunted and scrubbed his nose with
the back of his fist， then he slipped down the pilot-style
sunglasses he had pushed up into his cropped hair when
the lights first went off.
Joke? It damn well better not be a joke， I shit thee
not! If anything has gone wrong， my ass will be grass.
And if the slightest little thing is wrong， you can bet
your danglees that Mr， Diamond and his crew will spot
it. Nit-picking bastards! Ever since they took control
over Middle East operations of CIA， they seemed to
get their cookies by pointing out every little boo-boo，
Starr bit off the end of his cigar， spat it onto the
carpeted floor， pumped :t in and out of his pursed lips，
then lit it from a wooden match he struck with his
thumbnail. As Most Senior Field Operative， he had
access to Cuban cigars. After all， RHIPo
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